Sister of the Bride

by Henrietta Reid

  I glanced over at her as she stood with her back to me: she was wearing a cardigan of dun brown wool that she had knitted herself. Miss Palmer’s cardigans had always been rather a joke in the office, but now I felt only compassion for her as I saw how bony and stooped her shoulders were as they poked through the loosely knitted fabric. For the first time I wondered about Miss Palmer: her air of determined cheerfulness when she heard of another engagement in the office: did she secretly regret having remained single with nothing to return to but her bedsitting-room above the greengrocer’s and Shah, her beloved Persian cat?

  The fact that Mr. Judd had gone to London for the day meant that with a certain amount of time on my hands, I noticed with searing clarity things that had so far escaped me. That day opened my eyes to a lot of things I had previously ignored: for instance, when I went into their office there was a sudden cessation of talk and gossip amongst the junior typists. It was as though my presence dried up the laughter and chatter and the interchange of confidences, and I remembered with a little coldness at my heart how only a few years ago when I had newly arrived at Wentworth & Judd’s we had treated Miss Palmer in a similar manner when she had come upon us unexpectedly when we had been chatting. So already seniority was debarring me from sharing the confidences and gossip of the younger girls! Then there was the way Diana held out her hand almost apologetically when it came my turn to see her ring. Diana had always been a thoughtful, kind-hearted girl. Did she pity me, I wondered, perhaps feel that her happiness would bring home to me how I had been let down by Ross Overton and that I was valiantly concealing a twinge of jealousy?

  The afternoon seemed to drag on with leaden feet and it was still raining a depressing drizzle when it was time to go. The younger girls hurried out chattering like magpies, already discussing their plans for the evening. Miss Palmer packed the tartan holdall in which she carried various odds and ends, including a rather broken-down pair of shoes which she described as her ‘office shoes’, her raincoat and a paperback novel, and the cardigan that she was engaged in knitting—the current one was in a dull olive green that looked every bit as depressing as the dun brown.

  ‘Well, I certainly envy those young girls their energy,’ she said ruefully. ‘All I’m looking forward to now is getting back to Shah and putting my poor feet up.’

  It was obvious that she was bracketing me with herself, and again I felt a little twinge of resentment.

  Perhaps it showed in my expression, because she added hastily, ‘Of course I’m speaking for myself. You’ll have a date tonight, won’t you? I keep forgetting what an old fogey I am compared to you.’

  I put on my coat and rammed down my hat a little defiantly. ‘No, I’ve no date, but I’ll find plenty to do at home, you may be sure.’

  Miss Palmer regarded me frowningly for a moment, then said hesitantly, ‘My dear, you mustn’t get into the habit of isolating yourself. You’re young yet. Don’t let your chances pass as I did. Oh, I know at your age one is inclined to feel self-sufficient and to value one’s independence, but sooner or later one longs for the satisfaction of a home of one’s own, a husband and perhaps children. If you wait too long your life will be one of continual regret—as mine is. Many years ago I turned down a man who would have made me a good husband. We quarrelled about some stupid little thing. I can’t even remember what it was now, but I was proud of my independence and wanted to show him how unnecessary he was to my happiness. I’ve lived to regret it. When I go home tonight there’ll be no one but Shah to welcome me. And now it’s too late to hope for anything different.’

  It was so uncharacteristic of the reserved Miss Palmer to speak so revealingly that I stared at her in astonishment.

  ‘Oh, I know you probably think I’m an interfering old busybody,’ she said hastily, ‘but after all, you and I have always pulled along very well together and you’ve been here longer than the others. I’d simply hate to see you alone with nothing to go home to except a rather selfish old puss.’ She laughed as though trying to regain the rather formal and detached relationship that had always existed between us. ‘I’d better hurry off or Shah will be tearing the cushions to ribbons: he’s inclined to get pettish if I don’t turn up on time. I sometimes think the animal has a built-in clock, but then it’s my own fault, I expect: I spoil him hopelessly.’

  Later, when we had parted at the foot of Main Street, I watched Miss Palmer hurry away through the rain, her umbrella tilted against the breeze that had sprung up. I was on the point of turning homewards when on an impulse I crossed the road towards a small cafe with multi-coloured lights that glistened on the rain-washed pavement. I sat down at one of the small tables and ordered coffee. Not that I really wanted it, but I needed an excuse to sit quietly and consider my situation.

  I realized how the afternoon at the office had opened my eyes. Already I was being regarded by the younger girls as a failure, someone who had been ignominiously jilted and who should be humoured and tolerated, like Miss Palmer. I would definitely have to reconsider my way of life. Obviously if I remained at Wentworth & Judd’s I’d simply sink more and more into the deadly and futureless routine that would in time kill all initiative—yet what possible excuse could I give my mother were I suddenly and, in her view, incomprehensibly to fling up my job merely to take another?

  As I sipped at the tepid liquid that the waitress had indifferently slipped on to the table I realized that I was about the only customer who was seated alone in the cafe. Couples at the other tables either chattered gaily or sat side by side, their hands interlaced, intent and silent, content to be in each other’s company. Suddenly I remembered Averil’s plea for help. What had been out of the question that morning now seemed more feasible. I had no illusions that being in charge of Rodney would be any picnic. Mother had been right when she had remarked that Averil had spoiled him hopelessly and that he bitterly resented even the smallest restraint. But at least it would be a change and the sort of move that my mother would approve. For already she was visualizing a shipboard romance and Averil returning from the cruise with an eminently eligible fiancé trailing in her wake.

  Besides, I rather liked the sound of Cherry Cottage: it sounded attractively rural. I visualized it covered in summer with pink and white roses, its garden filled with lupins, lavender, foxgloves and golden marigolds. A chocolate-box cottage with latticed windows and beamed rooms! Even at this time of the year it would be beautiful, the woods filled with a fuzz of delicately graded greens. It would be a change from the deadly monotony, the hard pavements, the musty offices of Messrs Wentworth & Judd.

  Apart from that it would give me a chance quietly to reconsider my position and to make up my mind what steps I should take to reorganize my life.

  CHAPTER TWO

  MOTHER came along to the station to see me off. It was a sign that for once I had her approval. Yet, as the train moved out of the platform and I saw her plump figure recede, I was conscious of a feeling of relief and it was with a sense of freedom that I turned to the magazines I had provided myself with. I was vaguely aware that a young woman with a laden shopping-bag and a child were seated at the other end of the carriage and that a pipe-smoking man, immersed in a paper, was sitting across from me. Gradually the rows of uniform suburban houses gave way to cultivated fields and grasslands and I laid down my magazine and gazed dreamily at the countryside, fresh and green, the hedges fuzzed with pale delicate foliage.

  It was as if my old life with all its problems and doubts was gradually slipping away from me with every mile I travelled towards Warefield. It blotted out the guilty feeling I had had when I saw how disappointed and fussed Miss Palmer had been when I had asked for an early holiday. She had remarked a little coldly that although Mr. Judd had agreed to give me leave of absence he was extremely inconvenienced by my request. As for herself, she had continued, she was much too used to girls going off to get married to be surprised, although she had added significantly she would have imagined that in my case ‘the circu
mstances were different.’ It had been another wry little reminder that were I to decide to return to my old job it would mean a gradual settling down into a frustrating and futureless rut. Even the fact that I would be in sole charge of Rodney was not sufficient to damp my new sense of optimism.

  I was vaguely aware that an argument was going on between the young woman and her child at the opposite end of the carriage.

  ‘No, Shirley,’ her mother was saying, ‘you mustn’t touch it! Suppose you should cut your finger!’

  But the child persisted in reaching for the knife her mother was using to peel an apple.

  The mother glanced at me with an exasperated smile. ‘Shirley just can’t keep her hands off sharp things, though I’ve warned her a hundred times.’

  It was at this point that the child gave a piercing scream and dropped the knife that she had managed to tug from her mother’s grasp. Blood gushed from a cut on her finger.

  ‘There, what did I tell you!’ her mother said agitatedly.

  I rummaged hastily in my handbag and produced a clean white handkerchief and rather clumsily tried to bandage the by now hysterical child’s finger. However, the cut must have been quite deep, for my efforts were unnervingly ineffectual. Shirley, too, kept wriggling and twisting so that it was impossible to knot the handkerchief properly.

  ‘Here, let me do that.’ The man across had thrown aside his paper and was lowering a black case from the rack. He was a broad-shouldered young man with tow-coloured hair and a quietly dependable manner.

  Shirley’s mother looked relieved as she saw him take a roll of bandage from a compartment of his case.

  ‘Now aren’t you a lucky girl to have a doctor here to fix your finger?’

  ‘I think you’d better sit down: you look a bit green,’ he said dryly as he removed my fumbling attempt at first-aid. ‘I’ve the feeling that you haven’t the makings of a nurse.’

  A little shamefacedly I returned to my seat.

  Already Shirley’s tears had dried up: it was clear that he was the type of man who instantly inspires confidence in children. By the time the cut was attended to and Shirley was proudly holding up her bandaged finger the train was drawing into a station and the woman thanked him profusely as she hurriedly collected her possessions.

  He gazed after her a little wryly as he felt in his pocket and took out his pipe again. ‘Isn’t it extraordinary how completely under the thumb of their offspring some parents are? It’s obvious our little Shirley is used to getting her own way.’

  I nodded ruefully as I remembered some of Rodney’s exploits.

  The grey eyes looked discerningly at me as he filled his pipe. ‘You look as if you had had some unpleasant experiences of infantile ingenuity.’

  I smiled. ‘I’m on my way to Warefield to take charge of my sister’s child, Rodney, while she goes on a cruise. In some ways he’s a perfect little monster: on the other hand he can be very disarming too. But then children seem to have that ability.’

  He nodded and puffed placidly at his pipe, but I had the feeling that very little would escape those steady grey eyes. ‘Warefield, now isn’t that a coincidence! I’m Bob Pritchard, local G.P. and dogsbody. As it happens, I’m on my way back from a consultation—and a good thing too, or you’d probably still be dithering with that child.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not very brave when it comes to patching up people,’ I admitted, then said hesitantly, ‘I’m Esther Carson.’

  ‘Esther,’ he repeated slowly, as if testing the name on his tongue. ‘What a beautiful name! I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone before called Esther.’

  I looked at him in surprise. ‘Beautiful? I’ve always hated my name: it’s so old-fashioned and staid.’

  ‘Yes, it does sound dependable.’

  ‘Dependable!’ I echoed flatly. It was from the stamp of dependability I was trying to escape! Esther, who filled up the gaps in other people’s lives: Esther, who always turned up at Wentworth & Judd’s on time: trustworthy, responsible Esther who always missed out on the exciting and interesting things of life!

  ‘So you don’t like to be considered dependable, is that it?’

  I hesitated, wondering if the man across from me who was puffing at his pipe with an air of relaxed ease was quietly laughing at me. ‘No, not particularly,’ I said cautiously. ‘Anyway, what difference does it make how I feel about it?’ I turned and looked deliberately out of the window, letting him know that I had no intention of giving any further confidences. After all, he was a complete stranger to me and the fact that he was a doctor didn’t necessarily mean that I should pour out my thoughts and feelings to him.

  I felt him studying my averted face quizzically. ‘It’s clear you haven’t realized how rural we are at Warefield. You’ll find it impossible to keep yourself to yourself: before you’re there very long everyone will know just about everything about you. Why, we even have a lord of the manor—or so he would like to consider himself, for Vance Ashmore behaves with all the arrogance of a feudal baron.’

  ‘Vance Ashmore?’ I must have sounded startled.

  ‘Yes, do you know him?’

  ‘No, but I’m going to stay at Cherry Cottage which my sister tells me is in the grounds of his home.’

  ‘You mean Mrs. Etherton is your sister?’ It was his turn to sound surprised. ‘I should never have guessed you’re her sister.’

  But then how could he? I thought ruefully. Averil with her golden radiant looks, her zest for life! I was so completely different from her that it was not surprising he sounded incredulous. ‘We’re not at all alike,’ I agreed.

  Thoughtfully he knocked out his pipe. ‘There is no resemblance between you,’ he said slowly, but momentarily the grey eyes had looked wary and I got the impression that the fact that we were sisters had in some way disturbed him.

  For the moment I felt puzzled at his reaction. ‘According to Averil Cherry Cottage is very ye olde worlde and attractive,’ I said lightly. Somehow I wanted to get back to our previous footing. I had no way of knowing what exactly I had said that had subtly changed his attitude.

  ‘Yes, it is quite a little gem: sixteenth century and with the original oak beams and leaded windows. Actually it’s much older than the Ashmore home: the original mansion was burned down during the last century and old Silas Ashmore, Vance’s grandfather, built the present house on the foundations. Vance has also inherited the Ashmore Shipping Line: he’s the most important personage in the district.’

  I wondered if I had only imagined a slight dryness in his tones. ‘And does he live there alone?’ I asked curiously.

  He shook his head. ‘There’s his mother, Mrs. Ashmore, who is in her own way as autocratic as her son, although it’s said that he is the only person she can’t get the better of.’ He hesitated a moment, then added, ‘Then there’s Eric, his half-brother. He was crippled in a shooting accident. No one quite knows how it happened and the Ashmores aren’t the kind to display their skeletons in the closet, but it’s said that Eric and Vance had their eye on the same woman. It’s all rumour, of course, but all in all Vance is considered rather a dark horse. I expect it’s because we see him so seldom: his business interests keep him in London a lot. However, his mother keeps up the old hospitable habits and is given to throwing parties that are the highlight of Warefield social life.’

  He smiled. ‘Much as some of us may disapprove of the Ashmores, yet the invitations are much sought after and you’ve no idea of the mortification we feel if we’re left out. It’s a slight that takes a good deal of living down.’ His eyes twinkled good-humouredly. ‘However, I needn’t bore you with all this gossip. You won’t be very long at Cherry Cottage before you’ll be au fait with all our local scandals and eccentricities.’

  ‘I don’t expect I’ll have much time for gossiping,’ I said. ‘From what I know of my nephew I’ll be kept pretty busy, and when Averil leaves he’ll be even more of a handful.’

  ‘Your sister is leaving Cherry Cottage?�
�� He sounded surprised.

  ‘Yes, she’s going on a cruise. An old friend has invited her and naturally she’s keen to avail herself of the opportunity.’

  ‘Is she?’ He sounded astonished and incredulous.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said, puzzled. ‘Who wouldn’t be keen to see those lovely places?’ I was curious. Why did his manner change so obviously when Averil was under discussion? ‘I can’t imagine any girl not being delighted at the change,’ I went on, ‘especially Averil: she was always so gay and lighthearted and ready to enjoy everything.’

  ‘Not like you, of course. You’re the serious type, aren’t you?’ he said mischievously.

  He was teasing me, I knew, but still I felt vaguely resentful. ‘Perhaps I never had the opportunity to be anything else,’ I said, and immediately regretted the outburst. Of course, he would think now that I was jealous of my beautiful sister.

  ‘But perhaps you didn’t want the opportunity,’ he said quietly, and I found myself staring at him in shocked surprise.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I demanded.

  ‘Exactly what I say. Perhaps you really prefer a back seat. Frankly, I’m that way myself. But then I recognize that I’m never going to cut a swathe through life and am quite content in my own particular niche.’

  By this time I had gathered my self-possession. ‘Indeed?’ I returned flatly, and once again focused my gaze on the passing countryside. To my relief I saw that he had no intention of pursuing the conversation. He relapsed into a thoughtful silence, then picked up his newspaper and became immersed in it until we drew into Warefield.

  Typically, Averil had forgotten to make arrangements to have me met. I stood beside my luggage for a while, then as the platform began to clear wandered around and peered over the railings into the station yard, but there was no sign of the taxi she had promised to send for me.

  I found that Bob Pritchard had materialized at my side. ‘May I drive you to Cherry Cottage? I see you’re alone and palely loitering.’